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Chapter 20: King

Thursday afternoon light cuts through the tinted windows of the First Son’s office. I sit in a chair too low to the ground, a design choice meant to make visitors look up. I look straight ahead, at the man behind the desk.

“It’s done,” he says. He leans back, his fingers tented in a relaxed, power pose. “The last transfer cleared this morning. Mani Fest Events is now a wholly owned subsidiary of my interests. A shell with all the right permits.”

I nod, impressed. I would have never guessed that he was behind the acquisition of Imani’s business. “Congratulations, sir.”

“It’s not a matter of congratulations. What we need is activation.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the glass. “The campaign season is a machine. It needs a smooth operator. I’ve watched you, King. You are smooth and efficient. You understand discretion.”

“I understand event planning.”

“You understand systems,” he corrects. “That is what I am buying. Your system. I’ll pay you a management fee that would triple your current annual revenue and make you a very wealthy man, not in ten years, but in eighteen months. And all it requires is your system, applied to my machine.”

I must give it to the man. He is relentless. This is something I have seen in my work relationship with people like him. It’s not so much about the name and wealth as it is about how they use them.

“So, you’re planning her wedding,” he says. “I find it interesting, how you manage your way to be on top of things in this town.”

“I can’t take the credit on this one. It is Adaeze’s work.”

He smiles, a curious look on his face. “Didn’t it bother you?” he asks. “The mess with Yele?”

“No,” I lie. It still bothers me that Yele and his wife are out there, trying to ruin our vineyard.

“Well, in the end, everything is a contract.” He taps a closed manila folder. “This is a contract. Your company, your team, your methods. My budget, my scale, my political needs.”

He pushes the folder toward me. I do not reach for it.

“Follow me.”

He gets up and moves past me toward the door. I follow. We take a private elevator down to the basement of the building. A door opens into a lounge. The light here is dim. The air is thick the scent of expensive perfumes and aged whiskeys.

There are more than a few men. Eight, perhaps ten. They are clustered in small groups. I recognize some of the faces. This is a marketplace.

The First Son places a hand on my shoulder. “Gentlemen, a new potential associate. King Barrett. Event planning.”

Heads nod. Eyes assess. A few murmurs of acknowledgment. But no one asks questions. My presence is noted and accepted on the strength of the hand on my shoulder.

A drink appears in my hand. I do not remember asking for it. The surrounding conversation is something I can get used to. I take a slow sip and the whiskey burns down my throat.

The First Son leans close. “You see? This is one of the rooms where the map is drawn.”

He lets his words settle between us. I look at the faces in the room. This is the new Nigeria, the men that will take over from their fathers, and I’ve just been invited to the table.

“Think about what it means,” he continues. “To have a seat in this room to be able to protect what is yours. Just with a quiet word in the right ear. Your business. Your reputation.” He pauses, letting his eyes hold mine. “Your woman. No one touches what is yours. No one can dare. That is the real offer, Barrett.”

He claps me on the back and moves to speak with someone else. I am left seated alone and thinking to myself that temptation never felt so powerful.

***

My house welcomes me with silence. Everything is in its place. The remote controls are aligned on the coffee table. The pillows on the sofa are plumped and angled, just the way I want them. This used to give me a special kind of calm. That was until she came into my life like a hurricane and messed with my precision.

She’s been in Awka since Monday. A four-day training seminar for junior event planners, of which she is one of the key speakers. Before that, she was in Port Harcourt for three days, representing Barrett Brothers at an industry summit. She has been gone for most of the week. The wedding planning for Imani has been my primary focus, a deliberate choice on my part. Adika has developed a habit of showing up at the office unannounced, always under the guise of discussing wedding details. His presence is a low vibrational type of poison in the air, and I can’t have it. So, I keep her schedule full elsewhere while I take her place. I haven’t seen him in a week.

As I take off my shoes, I think about the First Son’s offer. He’s been patient, respecting my wish but not relenting. My answer is still no, but why do I feel that if he asks me one more time, I might just say yes? Is this what Yele did to Deze? Did he take his time, cajoling, seducing, coercing, showing her, like Satan did to Jesus, his kingdoms, and offering her all their glory?

Sadly, she’s never going to give me details of that affair, not in the way she takes her time to talk about how her day went or what her sister said to her over the phone. That one story will always be the thing we never talk about. Not because she’s ashamed, but because she respects me.

I settle into my sofa, and I think about protection.

For three months, Adaeze Nnadi has been in my life. In my space. In my bed. We have fallen into a rhythm that feels both new and ancient. We now understand each other’s silence and respect each other’s competence. There is no drama between us, only a steady, flowing current that runs deep.

I am a man built on control. My life is a series of managed systems and contained emotions that have been carefully tracked and balanced. Love was not part of the design. From experience, I considered it a chaotic variable. 

And yet…

Here I am, in love with her. It is settled, and I didn’t arrive here with noise. It stole in quietly and has now rewired my system.

That certainty of what we are changes the First Son’s offer from no longer a simple business proposition but to a strategic decision about the kind of world I can build around this precious woman who has taken root in my controlled life.

Can I protect what we have with integrity and the honest work of planning events? Or does this world he’s offering require a different kind of currency? I’m seduced by the power to ensure that the storms that have battered her can never touch her again.

I. Want. That. Power.

The doorbell rings. I’m not expecting anyone, and I really hate when people show up unannounced. What is a cellphone for again?

I walk to the door and don’t bother to look through the peephole. Whoever it is will see the unwelcome frown on my face and disappear.

 The bell goes off again, and I open the door. There is no time for a greeting as two small hurricanes blow past my legs into the house, followed by the weary-looking woman who created them. Ifechi stands before me, managing a strained smile as she nudges two small suitcases over the threshold with her foot.

“Uncle King!” Flourish shrieks, remembering that she’s just run past me. Her arms are already lifted toward me in absolute expectation. Smiling, I bend, catching her under the arms and hoisting her up. Her small hands immediately go to my collar, fiddling with the fabric, her face pressed close to mine in a hug that smells like strawberry shampoo and sunshine.

“Hello, little one,” I say.

Melody is already taking charge of the suitcases, rolling them with serious concentration into the center of the living room as if she has done this a hundred times. 

“Aren’t you going to say hi?” her mom scolds. 

“Hi,” she responds, and I chuckle. No one can make ‘hi’ sound shorter than it does. “We brought our pajamas, Uncle King, and Flourish brought Sonic, but I told her you don’t like Sonic but she didn’t hear.”

“Sonic is welcome,” I tell her, and she gives me a look that suggests I am spoiling her sister.

Ifechi finally steps inside, closing the door behind her. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a week. The skin around her eyes is thin and shadowed, and her shoulders sag.

“Ifechi,” I say, shifting Flourish’s weight. “Are you alright?”

The practiced, bright mask shows up on her face so fast it’s almost frightening. “I’m great, King. Really. Just a lot on my plate, balancing everything. I just… I need a little time to sort some things. You don’t mind, do you? Just for tonight. I’ll pick them up tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tomorrow?” Melody gasps. “Then what did we pack all these things for?”

“Saturday, then,” Ifechi quickly adds, smiling still.

“I have work tomorrow,” I tell her.

“Actually, girls,” Ifechi responds, “tomorrow is Follow Your Uncle to Work Day!”

Melody looks up from the suitcase with bright eyes. “Really? We can see your office?”

“Yay!” Flourish shouts right into my ear, making me wince.

“Ifechi, I have back-to-back meetings tomorrow,” I say, keeping my voice low. “The office isn’t really set up for…”

“They’ll be good,” she interrupts, and I see the desperation. “They’ll just sit and color. They won’t be any trouble. You know how they love you.” She is already backing toward the door, her hand on the handle. “Oh, and dinner on Sunday at our house. When you bring them back. You should bring your girlfriend, it would be nice for everyone to meet her properly.” The words tumble out in a rush. “Seven o’clock.”

“Ifechi—”

“Okay. Thank you, King, you’re a lifesaver.”

And then she is gone, leaving me standing in my suddenly choked living room with two small suitcases and two even smaller, energetic humans who now belong to me.

I set Flourish down on the floor, and she immediately takes off, running straight toward the low glass coffee table, with intent to crawl underneath it. I lunge after her, catching her around the waist just before she makes contact with the sharp edge. “Whoa, little explorer, not under there.”

She squirms in my grip, giggling as if it’s a game. “Ice cream!” she announces, the thought just occurring to her, and she points a finger toward the kitchen. “We have ice cream, Uncle King? Mommy says no ice cream before bed, but you’re not Mommy.”

Melody walks over, looking up at me with her mother’s tired eyes in a child’s face. “She’s going to be like this,” she informs me solemnly. “But she’ll soon sleep because she didn’t do her siesta. Me, I did mine, and when Daddy saw her running around, chasing the turkey, he shouted on her. Instead of her to sleep, she was just crying.”

“Oh.”

Flourish breaks free from my hold and makes a dash for the kitchen. I watch her go, awed by the relentless engine of a four-year-old in motion.

***

I observe the people spilling out of the arrivals hall, onto the terminal. I find a spot by a pillar away from the main crowd and wait, watching the doors. Then I see them. Deze is walking beside Abebi, who is maneuvering a trolley piled high with suitcases. Deze is talking, her hands sketching shapes in the air, and Abebi is nodding, looking a little overwhelmed. Deze turns her head, scanning the waiting crowd, and her eyes lock onto mine. A wide smile fills her gorgeous face.

She says something quick to Abebi, pats her shoulder, and then she is moving through the people. In seconds, she is right in front of me, her arms are around my neck, her body leaning into mine with warmth that I’ve missed.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you,” she whispers.

I hold her, one hand on the small of her back, the other cradling the back of her head. “The week was too long.”

She leans back, and her hands slide down to my chest. “It was like forever. Ugh! I talked more in four days than I have in the last four months. Those people in Awka, they have questions about everything. What is the best brand of cordless microphone, King? What is the precise shade of white for a cathedral wedding? I think I invented three new colors just to make them stop asking.”

I can’t help but smile. “I’m sure they were perfect colors.”

She laughs. “You go fear invention nau.”

She finally glances back at Abebi. “Abebi, look, it’s the boss. Rescuing us.”

Abebi gives me a tired but genuine smile. “Sir, good evening.”

“How are you, Abebi?”

“Fine, sir.”

“Let’s get you two out of here.”

The walk to the car is filled with Deze’s chatter. She tells me about over-enthusiastic trainees and terrible hotel coffee and a bizarre encounter with a local fabric vendor who claimed his thread was blessed by a river goddess. Abebi adds a quiet comment here and there from behind the trolley. 

At the car, I load the cases into the trunk. Abebi opens the rear passenger door and gets in, already pulling out her phone. Deze slides into the front passenger seat next to me. As I start the engine and navigate out of the airport complex, she is already talking again, turned in her seat so she can look at me.

I keep my eyes on the road, but my attention is entirely on her. I listen, I nod, I ask a question that sends her off on another tangent. Beneath my genuine interest in her stories, something more primal hums. I am acutely conscious of the shape of her leg in her trousers, the way her top drapes off her shoulder, the movement of her throat as she speaks and laughs. I want to pull over and kiss the words from her mouth.

When we eventually reach Abebi’s apartment, I let out a sigh. I get out to retrieve her bags from the trunk. She thanks me, gives Deze a quick wave, and heads inside.

I get back into the driver’s seat and close the door. The interior of the car is suddenly quiet because my darling noisemaker Deze is looking at me with a soft, knowing smile on her face. I don’t say anything. I just reach over, my hand curling behind her neck, and I pull her gently toward me. I kiss her. It starts soft, but then her hand comes up to my jaw, and she deepens it in a slow, deliberate kiss that tastes of all the things I’ve missed. When we finally part, she laughs quietly, her forehead resting against mine.

“I missed you too,” she says

I kiss her once more and then put the car in gear. “Your place is closer.”

She doesn’t argue. She just smiles, settling back into her seat. The drive to her apartment is short. We barely make it through her front door. I kick it closed behind us, then her back is against the wall and my mouth is on hers, and her hands are pulling at my shirt. There is no discussion or pause for thought. 

We move to the couch in her living room, a tangle of limbs and pushed-aside clothing, and there is no talk of protection, only the urgent, familiar need to be as close as possible, to erase the distance of the past week. It is fast and intense, and afterward, we lie tangled together on the couch, her head on my chest, our breathing slowly returning to normal. I can’t get tired of this reckless abandon that exists only with her.

Her finger draws a slow circle on my tummy. “We can’t keep tempting fate,” she says. “This is the third time.”

“I know, but you feel so good.”

“It’s not a terrible idea o,” she continues in a light tone. “A baby. It really isn’t.”

I let out a long breath, my hand stroking her hair. The idea sends a jolt through me, not of fear, but of staggering reality. I think of my nieces, of their constant, draining energy and the overwhelming responsibility of having them just existing. “I spent two days with Melody and Flourish. I love them, but I almost lost my mind. A baby is a permanent state of almost losing your mind.”

“If you put it that way.”

“We could have one in the sense that we would be occasional parents. Someone else parents her—because she’s going to be a girl—then, from time to time, we bring her home and take care of her.”

“You’re a typical man, King. That’s how fathers see children. From a distance.”

I keep my words. I don’t want to argue. We lie there for a while longer in the comfortable silence before we lazily untangle ourselves to shower. The water is hot, and we wash the travel from her skin and the day from mine. We dress in clean clothes. A simple dress for her, a t-shirt, and a pair of shorts for me.

“We should go,” I say, checking my watch. “The girls are at my place with Mrs. Barde. I told her we wouldn’t be late.”

“The neighbor who forgets things?” Deze asks, slipping on her sandals.

“That’s the one.”

***

Sunday evening. Deze is wearing a simple, elegant dress the color of something royal. It’s made of a soft, flowing material that falls to her knees. She looks beautiful, and I tell her this as I kiss her, drawing wonder from Flourish and censorship from Melody.

The girls know her now and like her, but they’re still getting used to the fact that she’s in my life. I sense some jealousy from Melody.

“All right, ladies,” I announce, taking one of their little suitcases as Deze takes the other, “let’s go.”

We are just about to walk out the door when the doorbell rings. I open it, and Sody is standing there, wearing one of her usual eclectic mixes of patterns and textures, a canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder.

“Hey,” she says, smiling. “I was just in the neighborhood. Thought I’d see if you guys were up for hanging out. Maybe a drink.”

“Aunty Sody!” The girls run to her and she lowers her frame, hugging them and leaving pecks on their heads. “Wow! Look at you! Almost taller than me!”

They both giggle.

“You always say that, Aunty Sody,” Melody tells her.

“Because it’s the truth.”

“Are you coming with us?” Flourish asks.

“Yes.” She straightens up and looks at me. “Where are we going.

“Dinner at Don and Ifechi’s.”

Sody’s smile doesn’t falter. “Why doesn’t Ifechi ever invite me?”

“Because you keep telling her things she doesn’t want to hear.”

“I tell her the truth.”

“You have to learn to pick your words, Sody.”

“That’s hard, but I’ll try, starting tonight.” She links her arm in Deze’s. “Let’s go.”

I don’t argue. I never really argue with Sody. It’s like trying to argue with the weather.

***

Ifechi answers the door herself. She looks better than she did on my doorstep, but the improvement is superficial, like a fresh coat of paint over a cracking wall. Her eyes light up when she sees Deze, and she pulls her into a warm, genuine hug. “You came. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” Deze says, returning the hug easily.

Ifechi looks at Sody, taking back her smile. “Sody?”

“Hi, sister-in-law. No hug for me?”

Ifechi hugs her.

“Look, Mommy!” Flourish says, thrusting a plastic bag at her. “Look what Aundy Deze gave me!”

“And Aunty Sody gave me this one!” Melody flashes her own gift bag. It was a brilliant idea to stop at a supermarket to get them goodies.

“Thank you, Aunties,” Ifechi says, then claps. “Okay, my helpers, come with me. Let’s finish setting the table for our guests.”

The girls scamper off after her, and we are left in the living room. 

Dinner is a surprisingly lively affair, almost entirely because of Flourish’s energetic manner and Sody’s chattiness that makes me realize that Deze is a quiet person, compared to her. Melody, more reserved, watches with smiles. Ifechi moves between the kitchen and the table, bringing out a simple but well-made meal of rice, stew, and fried plantains. The conversation is light, filled with the girls’ chatter.

Finally, Ifechi sits down at the head of the table. She looks around, takes a breath. “Don is… not feeling too well tonight. So, he won’t be joining us. Please, let’s eat.”

Sody catches my eye from across the table. A subtle, knowing glance. We both understand the lie. But we eat.

After dinner, Flourish tugs on my sleeve. “Uncle King, carry me upstairs and tell me a story.”

“Yes. You tell the best stories,” Melody agrees. I can’t say no.

Upstairs in their shared room, tucked under covers covered in cartoon characters, I tell them a short, silly story about a stubborn goat and a wise old tortoise. I’m not even halfway through when I see Flourish’s eyelids begin to droop. By the time I finish, both girls are asleep, their breathing soft and even. I whisper a quiet prayer over them before turning off the lamp and slipping out.

Downstairs, the table has been cleared. Ifechi is pouring red wine into four glasses. Sody and Deze are on the sofa, talking quietly. I take a seat in Don’s armchair.

Ifechi hands us each a glass and then holds up her own. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it. She tries again, and a hollow laugh escapes her. “Heck. I don’t even know what to toast to anymore.”

Then her face just crumbles. The careful composure shatters like glass. She sets her wine glass down on the table with a shaky hand, the liquid sloshing, and she puts her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs.

We stare at each other, then sit in silence, letting the wave pass. Sody gets up and sits beside her, a hand on her back.

After a minute, Ifechi wipes her face with her palms. She doesn’t look at us. She stares at her hands in her lap. “Ifeanyi…” she says, her voice thick. “He scammed us. We didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t. Don knew, but I wouldn’t let him think like that. The whole thing was a scam. He took it, even this last thirty million we sent him and just vanished. No calls. No texts. His line is dead. We don’t know if he is alive in a ditch somewhere or if he is just gone with our future.”

She takes a sharp, ragged breath. “The rest of the money, after King’s payout, I used it. I paid the debts we were stacking up, and I stocked our new shop in Garki with rice, oil, spaghetti… Things that will sell. I go there every day now. And Don…”

Her body heaves, and fresh tears spill. 

“Don sits in this house. He stares at the wall. He does nothing. He is a ghost.” She finally looks up, first at Sody, then at me. “Barrett Brothers gave him purpose. It gave him a reason to get up. He is not a man without it. He is just… there, and I’m scared.”

The room is heavy with her confession. Sody, gets up, picks her wine, and returns to her seat. Her voice is soft but it cuts through the emotion like a blade. “Why did you let him leave then, Ifechi? Why did you push him to give up the very thing that gave him purpose? Why did you do it?”

Ifechi flinches as if struck. Then a defiant, pained pride enters her tone. “Because as good as he was at that job, as much as he loved it, he was always in King’s shadow! Always! King was the star. The brains. The face of Barrett Brothers. My husband was ‘the blind brother.’ The one who took a bullet.”

“That’s not true,” I say.

“I wanted more for him. I wanted him to have his own thing, to stand in his own light and shine with it.” Her voice breaks. “You think I planned this? To sit in a shop in Garki and sell rice? No. But the man of the house, my own odogwu is not odogwu-ing anymore. I have to step in or our children will starve.”

She turns her full gaze on me. The pleading is there, but it’s layered over with fierce determination. “King, I am begging you as his wife. Give him his job back. Bring him home. He is drowning, and he doesn’t know how to ask for the rope.”

I feel for her. I feel the immense, crushing weight of her love and her disappointment. But inside, I’m thinking she still doesn’t understand the first thing about a man’s pride, especially a pride as wounded and fragile as Don’s. If he knew she was here saying these things, begging on his behalf, he would be furious with her. He would see it as the ultimate emasculation. And yet, I understand it too. This is what a wife’s love looks like when her husband is broken. It’s messy and it’s proud, and it will humiliate itself to save him.

“Ifechi,” I say, my voice low. “I can’t give him his job back as a partner.”

“But you’re still holding his money.”

“Based on agreement, yes.”

“Keep holding it and use it to let him come back and own a stake.”

I almost laugh at the absurdity of her request. She faces Deze.

“Adaeze, you’re a partner and you too can make decisions. Talk to King. Don is his brother.”

“I’ll talk to him. Just stop crying.”

I glare at Deze. What the heck is I’ll talk to him?

Ifechi nods, fresh tears spilling over. “Thank you, nwaoma.” She looks at me. “But you have to reach out first. You have to accord him the respect. As your elder brother. Meet him on that level. Please. Just… try.”

I shut my eyes, reining in my annoyance. I’m tired of this shit.

***

Deze is asleep on the living room sofa, curled on her side with one arm tucked under her head. Sody and I are at the dining table, a bottle of wine nearly empty between us. 

“So, what are you going to do?” Sody asks.

“I’m not bringing him back, and don’t tell me to.”

“I’m indifferent over this whole thing. Whatever you decide, just don’t let it kill the beautiful thing you have going with her.”

“I dare not.”

Sody smiles, nudging me. “You people make me jealous.”

“It’s not my fault that you keep dumping your boyfriends, Sody.”

“Men are boring these days. I need a challenge. Somebody that is ready to turn me upside-down and inside-out, that when he’s done with me ehn, none of you would recognize me.”

“Ah. Okay, o.”

“I’m not playing. I know what I’m saying. It’s written in the stars or wherever they write these things. The person for me will shake my world.”

“He’d better.”

We go quiet, and then she asks, “When was the last time you went to see Momsi?”

“Three weeks ago. Maybe a month. She was fine. Chatty. Had a lot to say about the nurses and the food.”

Sody nods, not looking at me. “I think we should bring her home.”

I let out a soft, tired breath. “Home where, Sody?”

“Clearly not my place,” she says, finally meeting my eyes with a small, wry smile. “I live like a teenage boy with a trust fund and a paintbrush obsession. One room, a parlor that’s basically a studio. She’d have a vision about the paint fumes and try to exorcise my canvases.”

“That’s your choice,” I say. “The way you live.”

“So where then?” she presses. “You know she can’t stand Ifechi. She can’t even stand Don most days, says his energy is somehow. So, their house is out.”

I lean back. “I’m not interested in taking care of her full time, Sody. I don’t have the time. Plus, she’s… stress.”

“Or,” Sody says, her eyes holding mine, “you’re ashamed of her.”

I feel the words like a small, sharp prick. “As how? What does that mean?”

She just shakes her head slowly and looks down into her wine. “Nothing. Forget I said it.”

But I can’t forget it. Her words settle in. I’m not ashamed of my mother. Not in the way Sody means. I love her. The thought of her locked away in that expensive, quiet facility with its gardens and soft-spoken staff is a constant, low-grade ache in my chest. But it’s the best place for her. According to all the expert evaluations, she is not mentally ill, not in a clinical, diagnosable way. She has a “unique perceptual relationship with the world,” that’s what the last fancy doctor from Lagos wrote.

But those experts aren’t there at two in the morning when she wakes up screaming from a nightmare she will call a vision by sunrise. They don’t have to calmly talk her down when she’s praying loudly in tongues, walking the halls, casting out demons only she can see. They don’t have to listen to the weird, unsettling things she says that sometimes cut a little too close to the bone. They didn’t have to live through my teenage years, through the many spiritual cleansings she insisted I needed, the herbs, the baths, the prayers. They weren’t there when she met my ex-girlfriend, the one who married someone else, and after one long, silent stare, she leaned over to me and whispered, “I see a cobra around that one’s neck. It is squeezing her truth out.” It was bizarre and embarrassing.

And yes, sometimes she was right. That’s the most frightening part. The cobra comment felt true in a way I couldn’t explain after the breakup. But being sometimes right doesn’t make her less crazy. It just makes her dangerous. And I couldn’t be the one to medicate my own mother, to watch pills dull the wild edges of her and dim that strange spark in her eyes. It felt like a betrayal. It was easier, cleaner, to pay professionals to do the hard, heartbreaking work.

“Get that idea out of your head, Sody,” I say, my voice firmer than I intend. “She’s cared for. She’s safe. That’s what matters.”

Sody just looks at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she shrugs. “Okay.”

I push my chair back, scraping against the floor. A deep yawn cracks my jaw. “I’m done for today abeg.” I walk over to her, kiss her on the forehead. “Don’t drink all the wine. And don’t paint on my walls.”

“No promises.”

I go to the sofa where Deze is sleeping. I shake her shoulder gently. “Come on. Bed.”

She groans, burrowing deeper into the cushion. “Five more minutes.”

“Nope.” I bend, slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, and lift her. She lets out a surprised yelp, instantly awake, as I hoist her up and over my shoulder.

“King! Put me down! What are you doing!” She’s laughing and swatting at my back as I carry her down the short hallway. I push my bedroom door open with my foot, stride in, and deposit her unceremoniously in the middle of the bed. 

I lock the door behind me. The laughter between us fades, replaced by a different kind of tension. Outside, the first heavy drops of rain in March begin to hit the roof. We make love with its sound as our soundtrack, matching our own rhythm. This time, there’s a pause, a rustle of foil, a moment of deliberate choice. It feels different and so mot like the real thing but it’s responsible and safe.

Afterward, I lie beside her, listening to the rain and her slowing breath. 

“Tell me a bedtime story, Uncle King,” she mutters. 

I pull her into my arms. “Once upon a time, a king met a princess, and all he could think about was how to undress her.”

“King Barrett!” Deze laughs. 

“It’s the truth na. You think I didn’t see us in bed together the moment I saw you?”

“Pervert!” she pushes me away, but I pull her back and pin her down. “You want to hear this story or not?”

She nibbles my lower lip. “Go ahead.”

***

I drive to Don’s house to pick him up. He is waiting outside, dressed in simple jeans and a polo shirt, his face turned toward the setting sun. He gets in the car without a word. I do not tell him where we are going. I drive out of the city, past the sprawl of newer estates, onto the older road that leads toward Gwagwalada. The air changes, becomes dustier, nostalgic.

“Where are you taking me, King?” he asks after forty-something minutes of silence, his head tilted as if listening to the quality of the traffic noise.

“You will know.”

It had taken me three days to do this, after a heated argument with Deze. Her advice didn’t feel like something I could have a say over.

“He is family. You don’t play with family!” she had yelled. Since our fight in Lagos, she had never spoken to me in that manner. I’d spent the rest of the day mad at her until she showed up at my doorstep with dinner and nothing underneath a kimono.

Now, here I am, pulling off the main road onto the familiar, potholed street, I let the windows down. We near a spot and the particular blend of smoke, spices, and stale beer hits the air. Don lets out a startled breath. “Broda Mikel’s place!”

“Yes.”

The building is even more faded than I remember. It clearly has been repainted, but the painting has peeled in long curls from the concrete. The hand-written signage above the door is still there, but the letters for ‘Ideal Spot Bar’ barely legible. I help Don out of the car and guide him by the elbow through the low doorway into the dim, cool interior.

The smell is the same. A deep, earthy aroma of goat head pepper soup simmering for hours mixes with the sharp tang of spilled beer, human sweat, and the smoky scent of roasting meat. It is the smell of our mid-twenties, of exhaustion and hustle and cheap triumph.

Broda Mikel is behind the bar, now older and thicker around the middle. His hair has gone completely grey. He is wiping a glass with a cloth. He looks up, his eyes pass over me with mild curiosity, and then they land on Don. They widen in recognition, then in shock as they take in the dark glasses, the careful way Don holds his head and lets me guide him.

“Don? King?” He puts the glass down with a thud and comes around the bar, his arms spread wide. He embraces Don first, patting his back hard, then he turns to me, grabbing my shoulders. “Look at you two. Men. Proper men!” He holds Don at arm’s length, his joy dimming into a sad, knowing look. “Your eyes, my son?”

“An accident, Broda Mikel,” Don says, his voice quiet. “A long time ago now.”

“Ah! God is good!” He taps him. “You are alive and you are here. That is what matters!” He turns, shouting toward a beaded curtain at the back. “Nkoyo! Come see who is here!”

He ushers us to a corner table, the same one we always used because it was slightly removed from the noisy center of the room. “Your table. Sit, sit.” As I guide Don into a chair, I look around. The same slow ceiling fan that used to turn with a persistent, creaky sound looks dead and is now replaced with a quiet, standing fan. The same framed, yellowed photograph of a younger Broda Mikel with Nwankwo Kanu rests crookedly on the wall. The linoleum floor tiles are more cracked than I remember. The dartboard we used is still there, dusty, the surrounding wall pocked with a decade of missed throws. Nothing has changed. It is a museum of a certain kind of past.

Broda Mikel is beaming. “I will prepare your isi-ewu myself. Special. Just like before. You know na!” He disappears through the beads.

A moment later, a woman pushes through the curtain. She is holding a tray with two bottles of beer and glasses. It takes me a second to place her. Nkoyo. Broda Mikel’s daughter. She was a skinny, giggling girl in her early twenties the last time I saw her. Now she’s a woman, her body softer and rounder, her eyes older. She smiles when she sees me, a shy, familiar smile, and then she notices Don and the smile falters with pity.

“Good afternoon, Uncle King. Welcome, Uncle Don,” she greets, setting the bottles down. We respond to her greeting. Her voice is softer than I remember.

“You look well, Nkoyo,” I say.

Her eyes dart away from mine, and when she smiles again, I see the gap where a premolar is missing on the upper left side. The sight of it sends disturbs me. I remember her in that cheap hotel room not far from here, her nervous laughter, the feel of her soft skin against mine. It had been a quiet night, not earthshaking, but one that made me stay awake all night and question my choices. I remember driving away the next morning, looking at this bar, at this life, and making a vow to myself that I would not end up here. I wouldn’t be the man who circled the same few blocks of the world forever, drinking the same beer, sleeping with the same local girls, telling the same stories. I wanted more. I wanted everything. I got into my rickety 1998 Camry and drove toward town and never looked back.

And now here she is, a tooth missing, serving beer in her father’s fading bar. I wonder, with a pang of guilt and horror, what her story is. What vows did she make to herself that did not come true?

“Thank you, Nkoyo.” 

“You’re welcome, sir.”

She gives a slight bow of her head before retreating behind the curtain.

Don who is still quiet, suddenly says, “She still has a crush on you.” 

“That was a long time ago,” I respond.

“What if you find out that she got pregnant for you and has this child she’s been hiding?”

I look at him and a slow smile comes to my lips. I miss this side of him that imagines silly things just for the fun of it. One of his wild imaginations was part of the dream that birthed Barrett Brothers.

What if we make it really big and the politicians in this town start looking for us to plan their events?

He had imagined this over beers, on a day like this, when we didn’t even have a small corner office to call ours.

“I used a condom,” I say, answering his question about Nkoyo.

“You did, eventually.”

I laugh, remembering asking him for a condom that night and he telling me it wasn’t worth it. He’d been clear that Nkoyo wasn’t my type and was too precious to her father for me to ‘use and discard’. One of the few times Don was a sensible older brother. And he’d been right. My lust for Nkoyo vanished the moment I got my satisfaction. Lust that should have ended each time her disappearing backside left my view.

We drink in silence for a while, listening to the familiar sounds of the bar, the clink of bottles, the low murmur of the two other customers, the distant sizzle from the kitchen. Broda Mikel brings out the isi-ewu himself in two small mortars. Don rubs his hand in anticipation as the man sets the meal before us.

We eat with our hands, the way we used to, the taste immediate and bringing memories of a time when we had nothing but big dreams and each other.

When the flat mortars are mostly clean and a second round of beers is in front of us, I wash my hands and wipe them on a napkin. “I want you to come back to Barrett Brothers,” I say. 

Don stops, his hand halfway to his beer bottle. He says nothing.

“I miss you,” I continue, looking at his closed, shaded face. “I miss what we built together. It’s not the same without you there. I know it will be tricky, with Marian in the office. That has to be over. You have to promise me you will not go near her, in that way, ever again. This is not a negotiation on that point.”

I take a breath. “And it’s not a partnership position. Not right now. That means you will have to respect my lead, and you will have to respect Deze’s lead. She is a senior partner now. Those are the terms.”

Don is still quiet for a long time. He takes a slow sip of his beer. “What makes you think I want to come back?” he finally asks.

“Because it is the only sensible thing you can do,” I say, matching his quiet tone. “You cannot share a workspace with Ifechi. It will frustrate you and eat you alive from the inside. You cannot get a job at your age, with your… condition, that will pay you what you are worth or give you the respect you have earned. You are a smart man. You need to secure your daughters’ futures. At Barrett Brothers, you have experience, you have history, you are known and respected.”

He listens, his head bowed. I can see the pride warring with the desperation inside him. He wants to refuse, to prove he does not need my charity. But he also wants to work again and be a man with purpose.

He finishes his beer. He sets the empty bottle down on the table.

“Give me time,” he says. “I’ll think about it.”

Broda Mikel comes over, asking if we want more. I order two bottles for him and Don and ask him to sit with us. Over the next thirty minutes, we talk, recalling the past and sharing old memories. When it’s time to leave, I pay the bill, add a shocking amount of cash, telling him to make sure Nkoyo gets something substantial. 

After that, I guide Don out to a dark night and into my car. As I drive away, the past remains where we leave it, but I feel the dust of it between us. I hope it’s enough to bring Don back to his senses.